kamiel [at] creativechoice.org

You want to stare into the abyss. You imagine you will discover something there, a boisterous polysemiotic laughing that reverberates against your high temples.

You want to plough into new and unique territories uncontaminated by other intellects and you realize it is the fervor of your fear that strangleholds you: the others! the others! They have been wherever you had imagined and intended to go, their intellect is vastly greater and more productive.

The little extra money you earn with that job you despise so much goes to an army of dentists but they never find anything. You have relabeled dentistry your hobby because that is how you cope, in theory. In practice you hate. You hate the pestering phenomena that have invaded the intimacy of your skull’s bone. Some part of you desires to go insane, to surrender to a benighted delirium and never return.

You undergo upside down cruci-fiction. It gives you a bit of distraction but the throbbing pain that has hijacked your nerves keeps adapting, the wretched heart of your world is now inflamed, you are forced to witness the conflagration of all inspiring thoughts before you can bear them out. Your tongue is continuously being cut off. You don’t want this solipsist war, you don’t want to be the unsung war poet hero of your jaw-trenches, no Siegfried Sassoon, goddammit.

You want to feel the love of life. The promise of a white screen and a black cup of arabica coffee and innocent thoughts stumbling over each other on the fertile hills of your imagination.

Not the unimaginative torture devices that the devil has clamped on your quivering synapses. You remember your dreams of vastness, bright rain forests of colors refracting into ever expanding horizons, endless otherworlds populated with the luring echos of your enchanting dreams.

You wanted to be original. Achromatic, atonal, a-physical. You needed all your fucking nerves for that. It is not tolerable that they are busy authoring this mundane and godawfully boring pain. You need the pieces of your mind to fly freely ahead of you like uncanny moths with translucent wings but every second of your mind is created by the tissue of your nerves that is infected by death and entropy.

You curse life with big words. You want the darkest and saddest prose chiseled in the rotting sepulcher of your mouth, and close it off for an eternity. You want all your words to have the quality of infinite loathing, you want them to spew nauseating black acrid fumes in the face of the lie you were sold as reality. Your whole life has become a maddening séjour in the antechamber of agony. You have set up camp near the gates of hell. You are forced to smell the decay of the remaining flesh on your lips. The rite of nihilism has overtaken your soul, your innermost being has been poisoned and putrefied. You want to grow tumors as large as lava stones to push this devil out. You want to vomit every organ in your body out and turn your skin inside out, you want to die a million times and reincarnate with ever so slightly less of that goddamn tooth pain.

You are tired, lackluster. You spell your curses with a dry mouth, you contemplate your duty to be alive. Tomorrow you must be ready to suffer again.